


Rules and How We Break Them

by Frenchy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2014, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:58:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchy/pseuds/Frenchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You may have agreed to work with Hawke, but that doesn't mean you trust her.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A short one-shot about the way that trust is built and how it breaks walls and rules all the same. Written for the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, in conjunction with artwork from the lovely <a href="http://fastforwardmotion.tumblr.com/post/98485348211/and-its-here-my-submission-to-the-dragon-age">fastforwardmotion</a> on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules and How We Break Them

_Hawke_.

You spend nearly two months on the subject, studying from the back of a crowd of misfits when it pleases her to take you along.  She seems a reasonable enough woman, quicker on her wit than her staff, but she _is_ still a mage and those you tend to avoid on principle. More worrisome is your mind’s tendency to tag the word “dangerous” onto her name, which, given how often the word ‘mage’ is synonymous with danger, might be redundancy or it might be a warning.

It doesn’t occur to you that you’ve finally gotten yourself in over your head until you find yourself sitting stiffly in one of the rickety chairs of The Hanged Man with Varric leering across a table at your untouched drink. You’ve managed to pointedly avoid any eye contact with the dwarf so far by watching Hawke make the agonizingly slow trek to the bar through a party of men toasting her good health. She’s popular in Lowtown now, but only just: there are still plenty of patrons who share wary glances over the woman who wears her staff like a proper weapon. Frankly, you don’t blame them.

“She’s not going to run off and strike up a deal with a demon the minute you turn your back, you know.” Varric’s voice cuts through the din of the tavern and you don’t even have to look up to see the grin he’s wearing in response to your souring expression.

“You don’t know that.” You sneer back with about as much biting sarcasm as you can muster while staring fixedly at Hawke’s back. Varric just chuckles and he’s remarkably unfazed despite having seen you crush a grown man’s heart into his sternum.

“Easy there Broody, I didn’t mean to offend your vigilance. I’m just saying that maybe your staring is the reason she….disappears so often.”

  _Disappears_.

It’s the way he says it, low-voiced and tipped with a question, which finally snaps your gaze away from Hawke. Cold regret floods your system instantly: Varric’s eyes are narrow and glittering, the way they always are when his story is the rare kind of outrageous that is somehow still more truth than embellishment. You should know better than to indulge him, should know better than to let him keep talking, but Varric has had many years of seducing more stubborn men than you with his stories and that _word_ is tagging along with Hawke’s name again. Your stomach clenches uncomfortably.

“What do you mean, ‘disappears’?”

This time you get to see that slow curl of a smirk crawl across the dwarf’s face as he practically reclines back into his chair.

“I mean exactly what I said.” He says unhelpfully and with a shrug that doesn’t look so much genuine as it does perfectly placed for emphasis. “Sometimes Hawke disappears. Carver can’t find her, Leandra doesn’t know where she is, Gamlen hasn’t seen her, although… ”

“So she’s good at hiding.” Your words are curt, interrupting, suddenly eager to dismiss Varric’s theories: the direction they’re headed has started your stomach churning and frankly the implications will do much worse if you let them linger for too long. “Kirkwall isn’t a small city. She probably just – ”

“I’ve seen her, Fenris,” The dwarf slips the words right in between your own and they’re so frigid and sharp that whatever you had meant to say withers to a film on your tongue. He smiles over the lip of his mug when you glower at him silently from across the table.

“She’s especially good when she’s seen you,” He continues, dark voice tight with the burn of ale. “She smiles and waves and turns a corner and just like that," He snaps for emphasis. "Gone." The dwarf hefts himself up in his chair and leans daringly closer to you across the table.

“You spent a lot of time around mages, didn’t you? In Tevinter?” The name makes you cringe, makes your whole body tingle with the feeling of woken lyrium, and your brow crumbling is all the answer Varric needs. He glances over his shoulder, back to where Hawke is finally, _finally_ making her way back to the table, and leans closer.

“All that time, did you ever see a mage disappear?”

Pregnant silence follows him as the dwarf stares you down, daring you to lie and say that you have. And then, as if he’s just told a particularly clever joke, Varric relaxes, _reclines_ , back into his chair and turns to wave Hawke over with a long, charming grin. You have no idea if he's just adding flavor to his story or if he simply likes to toy with elves in particular, but that casual smile he’s turning Hawke’s way is very quickly dissolving every last ounce of sanity and restraint you possess. You rip yourself up and out of your chair.

“Thank you for the drink.” You hiss through gritted teeth and by the time Varric’s head has turned to acknowledge the barely authentic gratitude, you have slung your sword across your back and shoved your way out of the tavern.

Two weeks later, when you’re almost willing to forgive Varric for the throbbing paranoia headache his story has left you with, you catch Hawke in Hightown. She's making pleasant conversation with a red-haired human in the middle of a busy square, gesturing wildly and flashing a charming grin when the other woman finally cracks a smile.

_"Ever seen a mage disappear?"_

The words hiss across your mind, rasping and sinister enough to curl your innards. Logic patiently reminds you that Hawke is not restricted to the filthy streets of Lowtown, and that she is absolutely allowed to seek more savory company, and better business, but that doesn't stop the cold sweat that beads up on your spine when the woman's gaze casually sweeps the square between words. She spots you rooted in place during one of these routine sweeps, just as the redhead apparently meets her socialization quota for the day and doles out the standard pleasantries, with an added, "Stay out of trouble Hawke. I mean it this time," before moving briskly away. Hawke smiles after her, a half-cocked grin that has charmed its way through a sea of apostate-seeking templars, until she is sure the woman is thoroughly out of sight. Then she finds your gaze again, grinning so wide that the skin around her eyes crinkles and by the Maker, she _waves_. Numb fury and lyrium bubble against your skin, rushing, _pounding_ and suddenly the entire market square between you and Hawke fizzles away into a dull haze of red.

When she turns on her heel and bolts for the nearest alleyway, you lunge like a predator after her. The market crowd closes in around you suddenly, pointedly, as if Hawke can influence every random movement of the people here and the chilling thought that she might, that this is more sinister than your paranoia, sends you crashing into the waves of people. Hawke ducks into the side street with the practice of someone who has given chase before, only inches from your outstretched arm, and hangs a sharp left. The sudden change of direction of the chase nearly sends you scrabbling, but your feet somehow manage to find purchase on the rough stone and you skid sideways into the next alley. The echoic snap of Varric’s fingers reaches your mind long before the realization that the street is deserted does.

Not a door cracked an inch out of frame, not a window shattered or moved, but Hawke has to be somewhere. Your hand closes over the hilt of the sword strapped to your back, metal tapping anxiously on metal. The closest door along the stone walls is over twenty paces from where you are: too far for the mage to have managed considering how close you had been to snatching at her shirttails. You watch every darkened spot that the alley has to offer for a solid five minutes of gnawing desperation until it finally overtakes you and you sag, cold and numb, against the left wall. You probably wouldn’t see Hawke again now, considering how quickly she had run and how loudly you had given chase. Not that it would bother you any never see another mage again, but given that you’re biggest concern now is the possibility of blood magic being involved…

You squint at the faint buzzing that is slowly interrupting any coherence your thoughts have. It’s more feeling than sound, if its sound at all, and when you focus hard enough, you can feel it sizzling up your left arm. Your gaze drops instantly down to the stone wall behind you and all at once you notice the thin, perfect crack that snakes up from the floor, up to eye level before veering off parallel with the ground. You kick off of the wall and the buzzing sings against your skin, so perfectly in tune that it’s like a note struck high and clear against a chime and oh, you _know_ that sound.

After all, any mage will tell you that nothing quite matches the harmony of lyrium and magic.

A blue pulse lights up your skin when your hand grazes the wall and then, with a little concentrated push, phases right through it. A false passage, and one that would be impassable even if it was somehow discovered by someone. Unless that someone happens to be _you_ , of course. The smirk your mouth curls into would almost be appreciatory if not for the shadow that activated lyrium casts over your face as your push yourself into and then through the wall. A brief flicker of the Fade wipes across your vision; somewhere in the grey haze a man with a staff clutched in his hand is dreaming of a city burning. You’re already through the wall before you have a chance to register anything else, and instinct severs the connection with a burst of light against the back of your eyes the minute you feel solid ground again. One hand catches you against the narrow corridor and you scowl at the darkened and spotty stairs below you. _Mages_.

You heft the images of the crumbling stone walls out of your mind for now. The landing underfoot is the only one on a set of squat, narrow stairs that descends into darkness until it reaches a flat and equally narrow corridor with a single, uncovered doorway carved out of the right wall. A faint light like a candle flickers into the hall and the faint echo of rustling fabric is indication enough that you are not alone. You grimace. Perfect.

The ceiling bears down on you as you creep step by step down the stairs, so close that you actually have to unlatch your entire sheath to draw your weapon when you finally, _finally_ find the hallway’s floor underfoot. You can’t hear the rustling anymore but the shadows thrown against the opposite wall flicker with the shadowed outline of a tall figure with staff raised and aimed at the doorway. Immediately you realize there’s no room for a proper fight in such a narrow space, especially not when it is expected.

Diplomacy first then.

“Put the weapon down, Hawke.”

“ _Fenris_?” The staff shifts in the shadows and very slowly, dark hair peeks out of the doorway. “How did you get in here?” You raise an eyebrow and her eyes travel slowly down your neck when the lyrium infusion pulses suddenly blue.

“Oh, of course. The glowy I-can-phase-through-solid-objects thing.” Finally the woman smiles, a grin you can see just over the edge of the doorway, and steps fully into your vision. “I suppose Varric owes you a hefty bag of coin now, doesn’t he?” The implication that you’re here on a dare isn’t accusatory, but your blood boils all the same.

“I’m not here for a bet,” You snap. Your sword arm moves slightly and when Hawke’s eyes flash down to the blade, her smile dims.

“What are you doing here Hawke?”

Her eyes find yours in the gloom and the stare the bears down on your is almost as crushing as the ceiling overhead. You stare back, with what you hope is equal intensity, until Hawke sighs and breaks the contact.

“I suppose just telling you that it’s _not_ blood magic or forbidden spells or wholly unethical magical experiments wouldn’t be enough, would it?” Her grin this time is thin, and her eyes are narrow and sting with disappointment. She gestures you inside, an invitation that you follow only when she moves first and even then it’s at some distance, hand still clutched white-knuckled around your sword’s hilt.

The room might have been a storage cellar once, might have been used by Lowtown smugglers to get thieved goods out of sight of the city guards. Now, the inside is warm, a welcome change from the draft of the hallway and of Kirkwall in general, and thick candles that have long since started their burn have chased every last shadow into a corner. Thick fabrics in royal reds and golds are strewn across the floor and walls, retaining the comfortable heat and painting a quaint backdrop for the stacks upon stacks of plush Orlesian pillows and books that are scattered haphazardly around the room. The Amell crest hangs over the doorway like it could be a noble’s entrance, or like a penniless child hung it while trying to play pretend.  Hawke finally turns to you, shrugging and arms partially outstretched as if to say, ‘This is it’. You eye her for a long time, breaking eye contact only when you’re glancing into each shadowed corner of the room.

“A…library?” You guess finally and Hawke snickers.

“Somehow, you still make it sound so much more sinister than it is,” She says, with a pointed look that makes your neck burn. “It’s just a room. A conveniently hidden room, but just a room none the less. After all,” And her eyes glitter mischievously when she coaxes up a grin. “Even the daughter of a dead noble house doesn’t get much time to herself.”

The realization that you are officially the most obnoxious companion that Hawke has had to deal with thus far comes slowly, but when it does, it rushes the silence following her words: after all, if anyone should know what refuge looks like, it should be you. The tip of your sword sweeps uselessly towards the ground.

“Not what you were expecting, I take it.” Hawke’s words aren’t so much accusatory as they are teasing and despite the shame that must burn bright and red on your face, she’s smiling.

“Evidently not.” You mutter into the fold of your armor, glancing around the room one last time before your sword finds its way back into its sheath and a sigh falls long and tired off of your lips.  “Hawke, I… must apologi-”

“Don’t,” The woman breaks in, and your eyes dart up to that teasing smile still curling at the edges of her lips. “Don’t worry about it, I mean. I’ve been as suspicious as a person can possibly be with all of my sneaking around. I’m sure people have come up with hundreds of stories by now and I don’t expect any of them are good.” She pauses for a second and her teasing smile suddenly morphs into something calculatingly wicked.

“I do, however, fully expect that you will now set up some sort of wager with Varric about whether or not you can find the place I’ve been “disappearing” to all the time.” Her smile folds into a wide grin when she adds, “I’ll even back you up if you share the winnings with me.” You can’t help the stare that you burn into the mage, eyes narrowed against the disbelief sizzling across your skin. You’ve broken into Hawke’s personal space, in an act that basically accuses her of some form of forbidden magic, threatened her with physical violence…and yet here she stands, eyes crinkling around the edges with her grin and her arms crossed like she’s fully expecting you to agree to swindling Varric out of a sizable sum of coin. You can’t say that you’re particularly against the idea, but…

“You’re…not upset?” The words trickle out slowly, uncomfortably, and Hawke heaves a theatrical sigh.

“Oh, Fenris. Will you let no one forgive you?” She asks with as much campy flair as Hawke is possibly allowed, hand draped dramatically across her forehead. Then she relaxes again, back into that same brilliant smile and shrugs.

“This place was going to be discovered sooner or later. All in all, it could have been found by someone much worse.” She says it like it is supposed to be a joke, but her eyes soften just a bit, just enough to scare you. You clear your throat, one hand rubbing awkwardly the burning on your neck that is no longer shame and chance a wobbly smile that you know is a little less genuine than Hawke’s.

“Like…Isabela?” You ask, quick to change the subject, quick to chase away the awkwardness that only Hawke seems capable of thrusting on you. She groans, too forcefully for it to be theatrics this time, and by your limited luck she is looking up and away when the wave of relief crashes across your face.

“Maker preserve me if that happens,” She moans, grinning at you until a shock of realization jolts across her face and her eyes snap into accusation. “You… wouldn’t _tell_ her about it, would you?” It’s barely enough but you just manage to stifle a laugh at the way Hawke’s voice brushes the line of barely-concealed terror.

“Not her or anyone else. You have my word,” The smirk you make your promise through is somewhat less stifled, and this is easier: you’re regrettably used to making swears to your honor, where tricky emotions don’t have to be involved. Hawke heaves an appreciatory sigh.

“Good. Although an exception will be made if you are still up for cheating a merchant prince out of his fortune.” And when her smile comes back, full force and wicked, you don’t even stop yourself from chuckling.

“I’ll find Varric immediately. I’m sure we can work out a deal.”

 

\---------------

 

You return sparingly to the little hovel after that, and then only at Hawke’s request. She mentions offhand that she enjoys some _silent_ company every now and again, and you’re inclined to agree to her requests because it makes it that much easier to keep an eye on a rogue mage that you can tolerate. (And maybe because it’s a nice change of pace to spend time with Hawke outside of the omnipresent rain of bandit blood that seems to follow her. But you’d sooner return to Tevinter than say that.) They start off as very formal meetings, very business-oriented, and you perch awkwardly wherever there is room on the opposite side of the tiny space from where Hawke has flung herself.

But very quickly, far more quickly than you had ever expected, you find yourself making regular visits to Hawke’s sanctuary. (Just to keep an eye on her, of course.) And soon you find yourself comfortable enough to stay longer, stay even when Hawke is away, stay silent and still and listening when she has a particularly interesting story to tell. The gap of an entire room gradually diminishes to a couple of paces as you finally begin to seat yourself on Hawke’s amassed pillow throne and the relish in her eyes the first time you do doesn’t send you bolting for the door as quickly as you might have imagined. Isabela begins to make guesses about your concurrent disappearances that are, as you put it at one point, “hazards to her immediate well being” but neither you nor Hawke are in any position to answer them and so the debates grow wilder with each retelling. Varric is just as bad, and is particularly bitter over his stupendous loss of coin, so he throws his silver tongue behind the lewdest of Isabela’s guesses and in weeks your entire party is either cracking jokes or avoiding eye contact. Hawke is decidedly less bothered by the entire situation, and when you chance to discuss it one day while hunkered over a book that she is more or less helping you limp through, she just shrugs noncommittally and moves on to the next passage.

That is your first encounter with the tacit law of Hawke’s domain. The rules are simple, despite that they are only ever implied: discussion of any recent event in Kirkwall is strictly off limits. You attempt three or four more times to get her to have a rational discussion about the slow ruin that the city is falling into before you realize how deeply the illusion of her sanctuary runs. She never makes an outright refusal to speak, more a brilliant oral navigation around the subject that she seems to only have a penchant for when sunk into a sea of Orlesian pillows, and eventually you stop trying altogether. She’s willing to talk just about anywhere else, and you figure allowing her the brief respite in negotiations that her tiny room provides isn’t completely enabling. Or you hope not, at the very least.

Besides, you’re not so above the idea of selfishness as not to enjoy an occasional escape either. Hawke’s stories are endless for a woman who describes herself so plainly, and she’s wont to share them with you when the worst days roll around. Her favorites are ones are about Lothering, about how she and her siblings passed the time in such a piss poor little village, about training her mabari not to bite the neighbor boys who teased her only because Leandra demanded she do so and in particular about Bethany, the sister you never met but who she describes as “the only mage you would have genuinely liked.” The third time she says it, you remind her that it wouldn’t be the first time and her smile is only outshone by the ever-burning candles.

This goes on for almost a year, days upon weeks of placating stories and what you would almost chance to call a happy existence, until a mission leading you just outside of Kirkwall sends down an army of slavers under Hadriana’s command. Hawke takes great pleasure in dismantling the ranks of a woman you politely depict as willing to sell her own children into slavery, but when the wretched apprentice finally crumbles through your phased hand, you can no longer stand to be in the same room with Hawke, with another _mage._ You leave, pretending the burning on your back is your gnawing hatred of everything the Imperium stands for and not her devastated stare.

When you do finally meet again, it’s at the Amell estate, not in the safety of Hawke’s refuge: you’re sure you’re beyond that now, beyond being allowed that space and you expect her to say as much. Instead she listens quietly, says only that she was worried that you had run off for good, and the gaping pit that has been your stomach for the past few days sinks even further at the realization that you’d have much rather her snarl at you to get out of her home. At least that would have made some sense. At least that would have been the response from someone who didn’t care anymore. Instead you find yourself pressing each other on walls and then sheets too lavish to be for a slave, even a former one, and something in you instantly aches for the scrape of cheap Orlesian velvet and for the smell of burning wax. In the end, it’s the ache that begins the flashes of old, forgotten memories and when they vanish, it’s all that remains.

You practically bolt out of the estate after that, still shaking and sore from the wanting and from sex, and halfway through Hightown you determine that going back into Hawke’s sanctuary is all but mental suicide. That ache runs deep and thick in your veins, like blood, like lyrium, and Maker knows you can’t possibly survive another scarring. You hole yourself up in your mansion for three days afterwards, and quietly make a habit of avoiding every unnecessary side street in Kirkwall.

You also avoid Hawke, in the most minimalist sense of the word. You’re always there the moment she needs a strong sword, but you’re also gone as soon as the mission is done and Isabela has come by the mansion four times in a week, demanding to know why you’re back to your typical broody self. When you eventually start locking the door, she starts taking the windows. Hawke is apparently just as tight-lipped as you are, but the overwhelming sense that any sort of relationship between the two of you is over and done with pervades until eventually, people stop asking. It’s a unique sort of peace then, one that you relish when you’ve deluded yourself enough to forget what they’re asking _about_ , and for a while you call yourself content.

Until the night Varric shows up to your door asking if you’ll join him at the Hanged Man for a drink in a tone that doesn’t allow for refusal. The dwarf is silent during the entire trek, down through Lowtown, into the tavern and to a table as far in the back of the building as he can possibly find. It’s not until you’ve settled into your seat and he’s about halfway into his mug that he sighs, so heavily that he sinks a couple of inches into his coat.

“Leandra is dead.” The way he says it, thick and rough voiced, means foul play. You chance at hope for Hawke’s sake anyway.

“How…?”

 “Murder,” Varric cuts in like he expects your optimism, or like he’s told the story too many times. “You remember that serial killer Hawke was tracking down?”

 “Gascard? I thought Hawke took care of him.”

“She did,” His reply is all but biting. “It wasn’t him. The real killer got to Leandra. A necromancer, using parts from those women he captured to reanimate his wife.” The dwarf has a severe look to him fairly often, but you’ve never seen his brow knot together quite like this before. “Sick bastard.”

“Hmm.” It’s all you can think to say, all you dare to. You haven’t seen Hawke in days but the way Varric scowls makes it seem like he has and you can only imagine the way she shoves her broken pieces together in the wake of his company. Still, it’s hard to commiserate with someone when you haven’t seen the damage. The dwarf must sense this because he pauses mid-swig and sets his mug down on the table with a low-lidded glare that sends fire up your neck.

“Hawke’s been disappearing again too.” He adds, pointedly, and _now_ you feel something; less pity though and more the icy fingers of quiet, fuming expectation. But there’s nothing to say in your defense – the old habit of patiently ignoring the problems between you and Hawke is steadfast in its desire to stick around – and you close your eyes with another noncommittal “hmm” and sink back against your seat. Varric’s sigh is loud and sharp, even over the rumble of voices in the tavern, and only serves to precede the scraping of his chair on the floor and the faint clink of silver hitting the table.

“Glad to see that all of that coin you two won off of me is doing some good in the world.”

When you look up again, Varric is gone and you can just see the hem of his coat disappear into one of the rooms upstairs. Your eyes trickle down to the empty mug that is the only thing sitting across from you now and it’s just as accusatory. You stare at it for as long as you can stand, until finally the well of guilt overflows and starts to spill into your veins and an aggravated growl forces its way past your gritted teeth. The chair behind you slides well over two feet when you kick yourself up and you storm out with the protests of the barkeep ringing in your ears.

Your vengeance against the accusatory dwarf burns right up until you’re standing outside of the hidden stairwell with rain sliding icily between the slats of your armor. It had started to pour almost immediately after crossing the threshold into Hightown and the timing of the thunderous storm raging overhead is almost enough to give the Chantry some clout. Still, standing out in the freezing rain while the wind batters Kirkwall is preferable to ducking through that doorway. Even the warm hum of mana singing against the lyrium under your skin is not enticing enough to pull you in just yet, not nearly enticing enough to draw you into the warm darkness of the only place in The City of Chains that really feels liberating, not enough to –

You’re halfway through the wall before the thought completes. Tevene curses slither across your tongue as you stumble on the landing and the shuffling you can just barely make out in the darkness suddenly cuts away. You freeze against the wall, careful not to make a sound, but the clink of your armor and the sound of water slapping against the floor is telling enough. Your pause unifies the sudden silence and sends a jolt of blood through your system, hot and quick enough to send your equilibrium spinning. The pulse thunders in your ears again when the shuffling picks up, this time as bare feet and the tap of wood on cobblestone.

“I’m down here Fenris.” The words are quiet, unfocused, like they were only half-expected to be spoken, but they’re an invitation none the less. You take the stairs on the balls of your feet, as if being quiet again could somehow reconcile the situation, and when Hawke meets you at the doorway, you realize exactly how justified Varric’s scowling had been. Her eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed despite how remarkably dry they look, and when after a moment she gestures you limply in, it’s with what you can only imagine a bloodless hand to look like. You comply none the less, and slink in after her.

The candlelight fills her out a little more, adds a little more color to her skin, but she’s still pale and ragged despite their help. She sinks into her nest of pillows without a word or another invitation, leaving you dripping in the doorway. Maybe it’s vengeance or maybe it’s habit, but she lets you stew for a couple of long minutes before conveniently noticing you again and making a vague movement with her hand as if to say, “Go on, sit down.” Only then do you move, perching stiffly on a wooden chest that has been the only addition to the room since you left and the only thing that won’t be entirely ruined by the rain still trickling off of your armor. Hawke watches you, frowning, but says nothing. She doesn’t have to. The unsaid words singe your mind, with more accusation than she could ever give them.

“It’s been a while.” She prompts finally and by the Maker she says it like it’s been a week. You nod dumbly. Her eyes still watch you, still waiting, still expecting, but your tongue has gone numb along with the rest of your wit and it’s all you can do to continue your uncomfortable perch. Eventually she gives up, and tries a smile instead. It looks ill-fitting on her face somehow and so forced that you can see the strain lines at the creases of her mouth.

“You’d think you’d forgotten about this place.” She goes on with a thin chuckle. “I know I said not to tell anyone about it but I didn’t expect you to be so committed.” You don’t say a word in reply, _can’t_ really, and her pacifying smile drips slowly off of her lips. Suddenly she won’t, look at you again: instead she looks down, looks to the book lying open at her side, looks to the door, looks at you and then back at the door. The silence is overbearing, _oppressive_ , but all you can remember is every single moment where you’ve never had the right words. You’re no Varric after all, no Isabela: you’d much rather leave negotiations to them, and to Hawke when she’s feeling particularly smarmy. Tightness coils in your chest, squeezing with each second that it takes the mage in question to glance from you to the door, once, twice, three more times until your nerves finally pop and you rocket up onto your feet.

“Hawke,” The unthinking exasperation in your tone destroys any pretense of comfort and you have to try the word a second time before it comes out correctly. “I…I’m not sure entirely what to say, but – ”

Her eyes cut you off. They’re still bloodshot, sure, but steel has poured into her stare, and you now recognize it as the one she uses to deal with lying thieves in Lowtown. It’s the stare of someone who is quietly willing you to shut up before she’s forced to take drastic measures of violence against your person, and the stare of someone who has done so before. A prick of anger nettles you; you came here for _her_ , came here at behest of the people who care about _her_ and _how dare she_. A rant beginning with those words – how _dare_ you – nearly makes it out of your composure before the stare she has pinned you with melts, just a little. The strain around her eyes lessens, pleading, willing you to understand, begging you to remember and –

And all at once, you remember the rules.

Your anger drains all the way down to your feet, dragging your heart down with it. Of _course_ she would come here. Of _course_ you should have known. Her companions are a compassionate bunch, and they probably mean well, but Varric certainly didn’t come to you first. Leandra’s death is likely days old now and Hawke has been grated on by every well-wishing citizen of Kirkwall who knows the Amell name. There is only one person who knows about this place, knows her well enough to find her now, and she already knows that he plays by the rules. Your realization of her clever ploy must be evident because she smiles, a small and sad little thing but finally, _finally_ genuine. You say nothing, but you’re sagging in your armor because for all the protection it affords, you can’t possible guard yourself from _this_.

When she gestures you over again, this time towards her, you almost protest; you’re soaked through and her fabrics are so delicate, in the way only Orlesian fabrics can be, and Hawke knows that even the cheap stuff is as much outside of your price range as it is hers. But her mouth quirks just a little, almost into a shadow of that brilliant grin she always used to cast you, and gestures again and well, you can’t possibly say no to _that_. You give in, sinking into crushed red velvet and obnoxious gold trim and by the _Maker,_ all this time and this is still the best seat in Kirkwall. Hawke’s grin glows a little stronger now, a little brighter, her face smeared just a bit more with red, and you casually ignore the fact that she has sunk down considerably closer to you. You’ll feign that ignorance for now, for her, at the very least. The silence this time is almost amicable and it stretches into long minutes that weave the awkward tension into something you might chance to call comfort, and you’re just on the edge of beautiful, blessed sleep when Hawke props up on one elbow and leans over you.

“Did I ever tell you about how I saw the Hero of Ferelden once?” And you roll your eyes behind closed eyelids because of _course_ you know the story. Everyone in The Hanged Man probably knows the story. It’s one of her favorites, besides the one where she locked Carver in an armoire for so long that he had to whittle his way out, and _that_ has always been a tough act to follow.

“No. In Lothering?” You lie anyway and whether or not she realizes you do is irrelevant: she settles back down onto the pillows with a sigh of relish you can only imagine comes from having to talk about something besides grief for a change.

“She only spent about two days there total and Carver told all of us that he heard them saying they were Grey Wardens. Mother just shrugged and said that we should wait a few days to see if the bounty on their heads would go up and then he could finally make us a little bit of coin.” You crack an eye open when Hawke chuckles, just to be sure, but her grin is far-off and genuine and no worse for wear with the recount of Leandra in better days. Your eye drops closed again.

“I’m sure he loved that.”

“Oh, he fumed for _days_!”

 --------------

 

You spend hours there, letting Hawke do the talking as you are so wont to do. She talks more later of course, when you’ve coaxed her by the hand back into the streets of Kirkwall, back into an estate that’s too big for a woman on her own, but you start calling it progress long before she starts folding mourning black into her clothes. No one asks, and you certainly don’t tell, but you’ve been calling it progress since the day you spent an entire afternoon lounged across a mound of Orlesian pillows, half-asleep and listening to Hawke’s voice petering off in her exhaustion. You’ve been calling it progress since she leaned over and muttered your name in sleep-thickened tones. You’ve been calling it progress since you feigned sleep simply out of pure laziness, and since a timid whisper of, “Thank you,” pooled into the darkness by your ear.

You start calling it progress when Hawke breaks the rules.


End file.
